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i think the month is just torn between two things that naturally occurs
the kind of cold that it brings tickles my skin voluntarily and my lips quiver so sweet, impulsive, and bad longing for something good girls never had
i can not tell how destructive the sun brings or is it desultory or just visiting my flesh perchance hearing the cracks he made despite my tranquility.
truly,
today i won't be celebrating special occasions again— whether he will knock at my door or if he decided to start singing the songs that he usually plays at refrain. on a count of one to four the lies he preaches shall be my religion no more.
the coldness won't pacify my laments on wounds he peeled the living coal, flying endlessly but does not reach the infinite
truly, the language he thought me to be spoken of suddenly died and ne'er did i became fluent on it.
i think, the month is just insatiably torn about the feelings she suppressed the season she used to call home will never be a place to harbor
prolly mad about things she thinks naturally occurs
hot weather and cold lips dry faces in pale cheeks
anything you desire won't always be granted and holidays are never meant for shatter hearted.
